


A Girl Like You in a Place Like This

by viktoire



Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktoire/pseuds/viktoire
Summary: Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman. Beautiful and sophisticated and intimidating. But he’ll keep reminding himself that all of that means nothing. She’s attractive, sure, but it’s not like he’s attracted to her.





	A Girl Like You in a Place Like This

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so major s/o to Shauna for essentially convincing me I should actually post something of these goofs in the first place :P
> 
> & though I didn't do the song justice at ALL, it should also be known that this was partially inspired by Billy Joel's 'Sleeping With the Television On'

If he had any guts at all, Peter would admit that the tug on his heart and the pesky thoughts that nag him are the signs of a crush. A certifiable, senseless crush. There are a handful of other women in Phil’s, some of them even alone, but he can't drag his stubborn eyes away from Murphy, sitting at the bar and sipping a soda. From the way her eyes sparkle and her face scrunches into a goofy grin, he figures Phil’s probably whispered some snarky comment about a rude patron. Her gaze catches his mid-giggle and the familiar jolt in his gut suddenly makes him self-conscious.

Nope. Nothing to see here. He’s just staring like a creep.

But a soft smile lingers, just briefly, on her face.

The moment is interrupted when some suit, tall and blond and arrogant, leans against the bar. He’s awfully close to her and is just barely blocking Peter’s view, but by the look she shoots the stranger he can tell she’s never met the guy. Annoyance is written all over her face, a sign that this idiot clearly doesn’t register as he proceeds, undoubtedly throwing out some unimpressive line.

Shit, if looks could kill.

Peter can barely hold in a laugh when that telltale smirk crosses her face; she is going to _utterly_ annihilate this guy. Sure enough, he watches the man turn around and stomp out, leaving Murphy alone with her notes and her drink like nothing happened. On one hand, he really can’t blame a guy for trying. She’s a vision, even with her hair a bit disheveled and piled on her head. Her sleeves are rolled up and she’s clearly still trying to work, her eyes focused and eyebrows furrowed even as the football game keeps distracting her. Unwillingly, his gaze falls to her legs, which after weeks of being around her he’s completely given up on trying to avoid looking at. It’s difficult not to stare. Especially now, when she’s wearing that grey skirt that hikes up just an inch or two higher than it should be allowed to.

Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman. Beautiful and sophisticated and intimidating. But he’ll keep reminding himself that all of that means nothing. She’s attractive, sure, but it’s not like he’s attracted to her.

If he were smart, he’d just leave it be. He wouldn’t taunt himself with suppressed ideas of trying to get in her mind, much less that damn skirt. But he finds himself making his way to the bar, settling into the barstool next to her.

“Has it ever snowed in here when you’ve frozen some poor sucker out like that?”

She scoffs, but also doesn’t seem to mind his sudden presence in her space. It isn’t lost on him how her eyes are strikingly softer than a few moments ago. Much softer than when that jerk had approached her.

“Poor sucker, my ass. You didn’t hear what he said.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“And you’re not going to,” she amends, a smug smile on her face. “What, are you writing an exposé? Murphy Brown: Destroyer of Men’s Egos.”

“Hey now, that’s not completely true. Mine’s still intact.”

“Believe me,” she snorts, “I know.”

“But then, you’re a smart guy.” He widens his eyes in surprise and she narrows hers right back. “ _Sometimes._ You value your life and you’d like to keep it, so you tread carefully. Most of these guys expect me to be impressed that they have the nerve to approach me. Or,” she turns slightly to face him, “they’re just too cocky for their own good.”

He ignores the sneaky implication.

What kind of a guy would actually make the cut? Peter can’t imagine who would be her type — that is, assuming she even has one. He’d have to be smart, definitely. Opinionated and impressive and worldly, would probably have to speak a little French or something. And from the handful of times he’s watched her with her son, good with kids would be a definite prerequisite. While he doesn’t think she’s really shallow enough to want someone devastatingly handsome, she probably wouldn’t oppose it either.

Not like any of that matters. What does he care?

“These jerks who read this exposé. Should I warn them not to try it unless they’ve got an impressive pickup line stored away?”

She leans back, gazing up at the TV in contemplation.

“That’s just it. It’s not so much in what they say, but in how they approach.” Her voice is unusually quiet. “See, it’s all an act. Only they don’t know I know that.”

“How can you be sure it’s an act?”

“I’m a journalist, Petey,” she states, as if the answer is obvious. “It’s all in the instincts, you know that, and right off the bat my instincts told me that guy was a jerk. You always have to go with your gut.”

A silence stretches between them for a moment too long and he can feel his body warming under her gaze. What do her instincts tell her about him? They couldn't possibly know that he'd been almost speechless when he first met her, and that he still doesn't understand why. He'd never felt his heart race that wildly just introducing himself to a woman. Her instincts have no idea that sometimes, on the nights when they both stay later than need be and it's only the two of them in the parking garage, he waits to see that she gets in her car alright. Nope. Her instincts don't know jack (and he refuses to listen to his own.)

She turns her attention back to her drink, gently stirring an ice cube with her finger before speaking again, quieter this time.

“Besides, he thought I was Diane Sawyer.”

Peter can’t help the laugh that escapes him and she glares back, though the glimmer in her eyes reveals that she’s holding in a laugh of her own. But when the moment settles and he speaks again, his voice takes on that rare, serious tone. The one he only uses when he’s not sure what he’s really trying to tell her.

“For what it’s worth? You’re right, you know.” Is he really going to shamelessly compliment her? “Your instincts are phenomenal.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that’s a blush crossing her cheeks.

“What can I say,” she shrugs, “I’m just your run-of-the-mill mind reader.” Her loose sweater just barely dips off her shoulder and his distracted glance falls to the strap of her bra, black and peeking out from beneath. He involuntarily swallows.

God, he hopes she isn’t.

“And anyway, if lines really did work, it wouldn’t be the one he tried.”

Peter doesn’t even care about what the jerk said. Really, he’s just interested in hearing her side of the story. It’s a rare glimpse behind her walls and into her thoughts and he’s completely drawn in. But then, he’s a reporter after all. It’s just research. Objective fact-checking and all that.

“These readers of mine," he continues the unspoken joke, "they deserve a heads-up though, don’t you think? Some do’s and don’t’s. Want me to test out some of my best and get a woman’s opinion on the matter?”  
  
Please don’t let her think he’s flirting. He isn’t, is he?

“And put yourself in the direct line of fire? You’re dumber than I thought.”

He’s never met a woman just as snarky as he is. If anything, her skill of sarcasm engages him even more than that mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she knocks him down a peg. Sometimes he tosses out a weak insult just to watch it happen.

“Shit,” she mutters, checking her watch, “I need to get home.”

Instinctively, he pushes her chair in. And helps her with her coat. And opens the door. Hey, it’s only because his mother raised him right — after all, he’s nothing if not a gentleman.  
  


-  -  -  -  -  
  


“You’d think a Porsche wouldn’t need to warm up.”

She rolls her eyes at him, shakily jamming the key into the ignition before cracking the door. 

_What are you waiting on, man? Walk away._

Their breath mingles in clouds of air between them and he’s suddenly aware of just how close they are. She’s holding in shivers, clutching her arms over her chest and tapping a foot to distract herself. Some cheesy line about conserving body heat lingers in the back of his mind, but he’s near enough to smell her perfume and his brain isn’t capable of doing anything close to thinking right now. It’s too busy repressing the idea of what she’d feel like if he just wrapped his arms around her.

He opts for the safer choice and brings his hand to her coat collar, gently straightening it out. Of course it’s not an excuse to touch her, it’s just bugging him.

“Off the record?”

He smiles, still impressed that they've kept the joke running. “Off the record.”

She stares up at him with an expression he can’t quite read. Soft and sincere and suddenly very serious.

“I don’t think you use lines, Petey.”

He watches as her eyes drop to his lips and he fumbles with every last ounce of his reasoning. The thoughts that barge unannounced into his brain leave him wondering what she’d do if he kissed her. She’d push him away and he’d become the laughingstock of the bullpen tomorrow morning, but if she’d just let him take her face in his hands and stop that trembling in her lips…

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Still beautiful and still sophisticated, but when she's looking up at him now with just the hint of a smile, a little less intimidating.

She’d still kill him if she knew that.

It’s only when the car door slams shut that he finally convinces his feet to move, his boots crunching in the curb’s now day-old snow. It’s only when he turns on the radio that he realizes he’s walked to his car in a daze, unable to shake her face from his mind. Shit, she’s a royal pain in his ass.

And there’s not a line in the book that’s worthy of her.


End file.
